


consumed, with whats to transpire

by ghostuser901



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blowjobs, Body Worship, Caught, Confident Peter Parker, Fantasizing, Gratuitous Smut, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Masturbation, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Sorry Not Sorry, Tiny bit of plot, Violence is only in the italics, desperately, it makes no real difference, just me trying to shove plot in, kinda i guess, mention of anal sex, tis up to you though, unspecified age but i hc as college peter, you can skip it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26902948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostuser901/pseuds/ghostuser901
Summary: "Peter doesn’t want to examine why, days later, laying on his bed under the cover of darkness, hand circling round his half hard cock, his mind flies back to that moment of Tony cradling him close to his chest, both of them out of breath, adrenaline soaked, clinging to the other, afraid to let go."---Alternatively titled, why you should always lock your door at night. Or in Peter's case, why you should leave it open.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 170





	consumed, with whats to transpire

**Author's Note:**

> here I am back at it again with the gratuitous porn. i hope you enjoy it at least, i had a blast writing it.
> 
> yes the title's from sex on fire by kings of leon, its three am give me a break

_From where he lays trapped under layers of rubble, metal pole lodged firmly into his lower calf, Peter can see the remains of the fight. Cap and Sam are busy taking down the leader of the organisation, Natasha and Clint kicking ass on the lackeys, Bruce calling out from the side-lines, code green decidedly not in effect after the incident last week._

_He watches, trying desperately to focus on the fight and not on the pain pulsing through his leg, searching the battlefield for any signs of Tony. They had gone down together, flattened under an apartment block, and at the last minute Tony had shoved Peter as far away as he could, succumbing to the onslaught of debris. Peter’s comms are down and Karen is offline, something must have been knocked as he fell, and Tony is still nowhere to be seen._

_He tries not to panic, they’ve been in much worse straits that this and survived with barely a scratch on them, but he can’t help but worry, can’t help the fear that’s slowly clawing its way up his throat, consuming him_. 

_He bites back a strangled groan as he doesn’t want to break the rest of the teams focus, doesn’t want any of them distracted by his pain. He can handle it, he thinks, just before the rubble above him starts to move._

_He absolutely cannot handle it_. 

_Something is shaking the debris, it feels almost like and earthquake, like the building is collapsing all over again, and when the rock with his metal pole is shoved sideways he can’t hold back a scream of agony. The shaking immediately stops._

_“Peter,” and oh, that’s Tony. Part of him relaxes instinctively at the sound of his voice, relief a brief reprieve from pain._

_All he manages in response is a weak, pained moan._

_“Pete, you in there?” Tony sounds calm, sounds sure, but Peter, who knows him so well by now, who’s spent the past few months, few years really, learning how to read this man, can hear the stress, the underlying current of fear and panic in his voice_. 

_“Yeah,” he tries to say, but it comes out as another unintelligible groan_. 

_“I’ve gotta move this stuff off you, Pete,” Tony says, panic mounting at Peter’s lack of response. “I’m going as gently as I can, sweetheart.”_

_The rubble around his starts to shift again, and Peter tenses against the promise of more pain. But Tony is true to his word, shifting painstakingly slowly, brick by brick, until finally, finally he reaches Peter’s body._

_“Hey,” he says, so soft, so gentle with him. Gently as he can, he pulls off his ruined mask, cupping Peter’s face in his hand, brushing away dust, pulling his sweat soaked hair away from his forehead._

_Peter moans again, hand reaching blindly towards Tony, coming up to grab at the armour. For now, Tony lets the nanoparticles recede, suit liquifying back into the base on his chest. Peter’s hand meets the material of his T-shirt, grabbing a fistful of it and holding on._

_“It’s okay, Pete - baby. I’m here, I’ve got you. We’re gonna get you out of this okay? You’re gonna be fine.”_

_Peter chokes on a dry sob, pulling at Tony’s shirt. Tony gets the hint, sinking down into the rubble beside him, lifting Peter’s torso gently to rest awkwardly in his lap. Rubs a hand down his back. Holds him close_. 

_“I’ve got you, sweetheart.”_

~~~

Peter doesn’t want to examine why, days later, laying on his bed under the cover of darkness, hand circling round his half hard cock, his mind flies back to that moment, of Tony cradling him close to his chest, both of them out of breath, adrenaline soaked, clinging to the other, afraid to let go. 

He especially doesn’t want to think about why his mind chooses to focus on the feeling of Tony’s hand gently petting his face, the soft, tender way he’d called him _sweetheart_ , and _baby_. 

What he does want to think about is the way his cock feels, finally able to touch after a short stay in the recovery rooms at the tower. He snuggles back into the pillows, tugs, twice, with his right hand. 

If he focusses hard enough, he can hear the harsh notes of Tony’s breathing, can feel the rise and fall of his chest under his hands. It’s glorious. Sometimes he seriously loves his enhanced senses, the way they’ve sharpened his memory. How he can feel, hours later, the touches Tony doles out in the lab, a hand on his arm here, a brush of their fingers there, sometimes even a hug, a full body press, arms encircling his waist, tugging him in close. 

He’s gotten so good at hoarding these moments, bringing them out later in memory, just when he needs them. And oh gods, does he need them now. 

He hasn’t seen Tony since the incident, he had been called away almost immediately for cleanup and reparations, and he hadn’t come in to visit him in the recovery suite, just too busy to get away. He’d texted, though, and called, to ‘make sure Peter didn’t feel neglected,’ and the sound of his rough voice so close to Peter’s ear had him half hard right there in the hospital. It’s almost embarrassing, how easy the mere memory of Tony can get him off. 

His cock is now fully hard from his ministrations, and he brings his hand up to his mouth, licking a wet stripe across his palm, taking himself back in hand. The slick slide causes arousal to fizz deep in his belly, as he reverts his thoughts back to Tony, constructing his favourite scenario, coalescing the data from his sensory memory, Tony’s own leaked sex tapes, Peter’s vivid imagination. 

It’s tried and tested, but it never gets old. In the blink of an eye, the drag of his hand up his length, Tony has him bent over his lab desk, naked from the waist up, pants pulled down just enough for Tony’s cock to slip inside him, the press of his belt against the backs of his thighs, one hand cupped round the back of his neck, holding him down, the other running soothing circles over his waist, murmuring praise and sweet words even as he fucks him into next week. 

Peter lets out a hum, speeds up the movement of his hand. The picture in his mind slips a little, losing concentration as he lets himself lay back and just _feel_ , for the first time in days. He’s still hazily focussed on Tony, the thought of his cock pounding into him falling in line with the movement of his arm, each imagined thrust followed by the drag and pull of his hand on his dick.  
Eyes slipping closed, he lets his other hand wander, gently petting along his stomach in a way that makes his chest tighten, a bolt of want shooting through him. He glides it up slowly, concentrating on maintaining the speed in contrast to his other hand. He circles up to his nipples, first one, then the other, an unhurried roll between his thumb and forefinger, followed by a hard pinch that has him choking back a moan. 

Thumbing over the head of his cock he catches the precome that’s been gathering there, lets it slick the way down. It feels so good that he can’t help but do it again, thumb pressing at his slit, slick, wet friction, and this time he can’t hold back the moan, can feel it resonate deep in his chest, wanton.

He sounds wrecked already, and his mind circles back to the thought of Tony, of Tony doing this to him, Tony’s hand wrapped round his cock, or even round his own. Wonders if Tony ever thinks of him, when he does this to himself, ever thinks of Peter spreading himself open for him, of fucking into his tight heat as he fists his cock, face scrunched in pleasure like it has in the videos Peter has seen.

He imagines him here, beside him, both of them lost to their own desires, drawing pleasure simply from being together, from the heat that generates between them. Peter moans again as he pictures how Tony would look spread out against his pillows with his hair mussed and skin shining with sweat, breath coming in harsh pants as his hand speeds over his cock.

Following fantasy Tony’s lead, Peter lets his other hand fall away to grip blindly at the bedsheets, concentrating on speeding up his stokes, adding a twist on the upstroke as another hot burst of precome shoots out of him, cock twitching in his hand. It feels so good, he can feel the heat building within him, knows he won’t last much longer. 

Peter loves this, lives for this moment, when the world around him fades away, eclipsed by pure selfish need, by the desperate desire to reach climax. It makes his head spin, dizzy with how fast his mind focuses on that one objective, awareness narrowing down to the obscene drag of his hand over his cock, sharp, electric bursts of fricticious pleasure zapping over his skin, breath hitching high in his throat. 

He can hear the traffic outside his window, the sounds of the city at night, but it’s far away from him now, the rough sliding of sheets where they’re rubbing against his arm, the pounding of his heart, blood rushing in his ears so much closer, more visceral. His chest is heaving with the effort, breath pulling in tight, catching on moans and trapped, base sounds of pleasure. 

He’s lost to feeling, to sensation, the intricate fantasies of earlier brought down to one last coherent thought of Tony, Tony, _Tony_ , clinging to the picture in his mind as his hand speeds, twists, just right, just there, he’s so close, can feel himself throbbing, pulsing, hips bucking up of their own accord, meeting his hand with sharp, erratic thrusts, an electric current shooting through him, nervous system alight, every cell in his body flooding with beautiful, sweet, aching, _pleasure_ , and he’s gone. 

There’s nothing, nothing in the world but this, wave after wave of release racking his body, coating his hand, his belly, in thick, sticky stripes of cum, stomach clenching at the feeling of it hitting his skin, a physical manifestation of the pleasure he feels deep within him. He’s vaguely aware of himself moaning, loud and low, couldn’t stop it even if he tried. It lasts years, lifetimes, he’s crashing over the edge so hard he’s not sure how he’ll ever get back up. He’s not sure he wants to. 

When it finally stops, he sags back into the mattress, the warmth of his body heat, the soft glide of the comforter, cool where it had been left exposed to the air, convalescing into a perfect haven of comfort. He feels liquid, boneless, all tension gone from his body. He’s content to lay there forever, mind drifting, vague, contentment seeping deep into him. 

Lazily, unhurried, he blinks his eyes open, unfocused for now, watching light dance across the ceiling. Smiles, just a little. He’s so warm, so soft, he could just... wait... light? There was no light on in his room. Sluggish, his brain tries to think back. No, he definitely switched off the light. 

He’s confused, torn between brushing it off as unimportant, closing his eyes again and succumbing to sleep, and the other, stronger part of him that’s ringing alarm bells, trying valiantly to wake him up. 

Blinking, trying to refocus his eyes, his mind, he registers that the light is coming in the direction of his open doorway. His open... doorway... his open... 

He shoots upright, grabbing at the comforter and yanking it up his body as far as it will go, an instinctual attempt to cover his modesty, to hide as much of himself as he can, mind screeching to a halt as he locks eyes with one Tony Stark. 

Tony is breathing harshly, the quick rise and fall of his chest, the convulsive flexing of his hand where is lies at his side causing the fluctuations in the light that frames his body, outlining him, like some voyeuristic angel, face shrouded in shadow. His other hand is clenched on the door handle so hard it must be painful, knuckles white and locked in position. 

Peter has no idea how long he’s been standing there, but the expression on his face is enough to tell him that he saw too much, enough to have him lock down into fight or flight, for his eyes turn dark, inky black and his cock to.. get... _hard_? Yeah, there’s no mistaking the outline of it protruding from his jeans, and if there could be any doubt right at that moment, as Tony realises the direction Peter’s eyes have taken, it twitches, Tony ripping his hand off the door, expression caught somewhere between mortified and reverent, altogether desperate. 

“I,” he starts, cuts off to clear his throat. “I just- I came to see how, how you were after, uh, after everything.”

He keeps going, muttering about training and recovery and at any other time Peter would be rejoicing, would be ecstatic to have finally caught Tony off guard. As it is, he’s so embarrassed he wants the world to disappear, wants to zap back in time twenty minutes ago and lock his goddamn door, wants to crawl over to where Tony is standing and suck him off until he can’t form words, until he can’t remember his own name, until he _shuts up_. 

Tony somehow manages to get the message from the pleading look he’s sending him, and he cuts off abruptly. He’s still staring, that’s the thing, eyes boring into Peter, into his soul, into the very fabric of his being. 

“Peter.” 

It’s half whisper, half outright moan, and it’s enough to have his oversensitive, spent cock perk up in interest, arousal still burning low within him, not quite gone from his recent orgasm. 

“Tony,” he answers in kind, breathless, shocked. 

And Tony looks so conflicted, so torn between the evident guilt and pleasure writing themselves across his face, that Peter takes pity, and stretches out a hand. 

“Come here,” he says, softly, but with clear intent. 

“Peter,” Tony says again. “I _can’t_. You know I can’t.”

Peter knows. Oh, Peter knows. He just doesn’t care. 

“I want you to,” he says, strong, confident. In fact, he’s desperate for it, but he can’t let Tony see that. He has to hold up this front for him, so that neither of them break. 

He sees the exact moment Tony caves. The tension in his shoulders recedes, breath leaving him in one long exhale, taking one step into the room, then another. 

Peter lets himself break into a grin, settles himself back against the pillows. 

“Tony,” he says, hand reaching back down to encircle around his rapidly filling cock. Tony hold his gaze, electricity crackling in the air between them. “Lock the door.”

Tony complies on autopilot, Peter can see the conflicted emotion running across his face, like Tony knows he’s lost the upper hand, and wondering why he likes that. Peter can relate. 

He drags himself up against the headboard, waiting until Tony has perched himself awkwardly on the edge of the bed to reach out, arm circling round his shoulders, pulling himself closer with one leg stretching out behind Tony’s back. 

Tony takes a deep breath in through his nose then turns to look at him. 

“This is a terrible idea, kid,” he says. He’s trying for joking, but Peter knows, can tell he means it, can feel the self-depreciation rolling off him, the pain hiding in his eyes.

“Possibly,” Peter agrees. “But do you want this?”

Tony sighs, conflicted. “It’s not that simple, Peter.”

“It could be,” Peter whispers, hand coming up to cup the back of Tony neck, fingers curling into his hair. 

“Do you want this?” he asks again.

Peter feels rather than sees the way Tony nods, eyes slipping closed, and taking that as permission he guides Tony forward and presses their lips together. At first, Tony doesn’t respond, but Peter is content to wait as long as he needs to. In tiny increments, he feels Tony relax, begin to push back against his kisses, shifts towards him slightly. 

Peter pulls away, brushes his hand over Tony’s cheek, his eyelashes tickling the pad of his thumb. Tony opens his eyes, looks at him, dazed.

“I want this,” Peter repeats., sure, confident.

And with that, the dam breaks. 

Tony brings both hands to frame Peter’s face, capturing his mouth in a kiss that that leaves him reeling, pleasure coursing through his body right down to his toes, hands uselessly scrabbling at Tony’s back in an attempt to bring him closer still.

Their tongues slide against one another in a searing wet glide, leaving them breathless and desperate for more, each slick pull of lips causing pleasure to mount higher and higher, until Tony is climbing on to the bed with him, hands trailing down exposed skin leaving trails of fire in their wake. 

The fabric of Tony’s suit chafes against his naked skin, the coarse hair of his beard rubs against the smoothness of his face, and that in contrast to the softness of his lips and hands has Peter’s synapses firing in all directions, the conflicting input leaves every cell in his body humming with delight. 

Tony pulls away from his mouth with a groan, eyes wide, pupils dark with pleasure. 

“God, look at you,” he says, reverent, voice dark, deeper than usual. “What d’you want, baby, anything you want.”

Peter’s mind spins at the possibilities.

“I don’t. I,” he manages to spit out, stammering. 

“Want me to fuck you, hmm, suck you off maybe?” Tony’s hand trails down towards Peter’s cock, circling round, back up the other side. “Just want me to touch? Tell me, Pete, anything.”

God, Peter wishes he had had time to prepare for this, wants Tony inside him more than anything, but it’ll have to wait. Tony’s looking at him, expectant, and he holds his gaze as he tells him what he wants.

“I wanna suck your dick,” he says, eloquently. 

Tony’s hands skitter to a halt across his skin. He looks shocked, like he couldn’t believe Peter would want to do that for him, and so Peter presses the advantage.

“Wanna feel you in my mouth, Tony, c’mon,” he says, hands reaching for Tony’s belt.

 _Let me take care of you for a change_ , he thinks, willing Tony to understand why he wants this, why he needs it. Tony’s always looking out for him, always giving him everything, and Peter just wants to return the favour. Wants to see Tony come apart underneath him.

“God,” Tony says on an inhale as Peter’s hands undo the clasp, pulls gently to remove it. “Pete-”

Peter shushes him with a kiss, manoeuvring him to lay on his back and hovering on all fours above him. He tugs at Tony’s shirt and Tony seems to take the hint, undoing the buttons with frenzied movement, all but ripping them off in his haste to remove the shirt as Peter undoes the zipper on his pants and pulls them down, leaving Tony finally naked underneath him.

Peter takes a minute to stare down at the object of his fantasies come to life underneath him. Tony’s skin is a gentle tan all over, a couple shades darker than the cream white of his own. In the light from the open doorway he looks golden, muscles shifting under skin, tightening and relaxing with each breath. It makes Peter’s mouth water. He wants to taste him all over. So that’s what he does. 

Starting with a few more gentle kisses to his mouth, he works his way down the side of Tony’s neck, suckling at the skin there, nipping gently at his collarbones, laving his tongue across his nipples, flicking them, biting ever so gently. Tony has his hands in Peter’s hair as he kisses and licks his way down the path of his abs, over his navel and down towards the jut of his dick. 

The sounds he’s making are going straight to Peter’s cock, quiet groans he’s attempting to stifle, unsuccessfully, breath hitching each time Peter’s teeth make an appearance. He files that thought away for later as he bypasses Tony’s cock, settling himself between his spread legs. 

Hands gripping into the meat of his thighs, Peter lets himself take a minute to allow the situation to sink in. Tony is gazing down at him, awe and disbelief to echo Peter’s shining in his eyes. His face is flushed deep pink, eyes dark, molten chocolate, and his chest is rising and falling rapidly, scars from the arc reactor pulled taunt then set loose, like rippling waves on his skin. 

Slowly, he licks his way up one thigh, then the other, sucking bruising kisses as he goes and Tony jumps under his hands, desperate. Peter watches reverently as a bead of precum drips out and onto Tony’s stomach, smearing with his continuous movement, leaving his skin glistening. 

Tony has followed the path of his gaze. 

“Peter,” he says with a whine.

He could get used to hearing that. As it is, he cocks his head to one side, looks innocently up at Tony.

“Shit, kid.” He shifts against the sheets, hand clenching in Peter’s hair. “You gonna make me say it, huh?”

Peter says nothing, tonguing at the skin around Tony’s cock, nipping at the corner where his thigh meets his groin.

“Peter,” he says again, high in his throat, tightly wound. 

So of course, Peter does it again, bites a little harder into the skin, sucks.

“Peter,” his hand spasms again, another bead of precum dribbling out of his cock. “Please.”

Taking pity on him, he moves slowly upwards, till he’s hovering above the tip of Tony’s cock. It’s not that he’s never done this before he thinks, as he leans down to lick gently at the head, it’s just that he’s struck with that same fear of the first time, the worry that he needs to make it good. All he wants is for this to be good for Tony, to make him feel good. 

After licking softly for a few moments, he finally gets his lips around him, and that fear dissipates at the sound Tony makes, an aborted, half stifled moan that goes straight to his dick. In this position, he finds he can rub himself against the blankets while he sucks Tony off, and if that isn’t every fantasy he’s ever had come to life, he doesn’t know what is. 

At the first press of his hips into the mattress he takes as much of Tony in his mouth as he can, hollows his cheeks, and sucks. It takes a minute to work out the correct rhythm, but soon he’s bobbing his head in earnest as he fucks down into the sheets, Tony’s moans the only encouragement he needs to keep going. 

He wants to keep his eyes open, he really does, wants to sear this moment into his memory and never let it go, but he can’t, lids fluttering shut against his command, and all he can focus on is the feel of it. 

All his other senses go into overdrive, working on one hundred and ten percent capacity. He can hear the rush of blood in his ears, the steadily increasing thump of his heart, along with Tony’s laboured breathing and helpless moans, some deep in his chest, others high, breathy. He works at the hot, heavy length in his mouth until he figures out how to cause more of those sounds, tongue following the thick veins on the underside even as he sucks and swallows around him. 

There’s drool dripping down his chin, mixing with precum and its messy, and perfect, and like that he knows what he wants. He wants Tony to own him, take him, and he sets about trying to coax him into it. He stops the bobbing of his head, lets his mouth go lax. Opening his eyes, he tries to convey his intention through thought alone. 

Tony whines at the loss of stimulation, looking down at him, confused. Grips his hair a bit tighter. Peter moans in response. 

“Shit,” Tony whispers, awed. “Pete, you want me to...”

Peter moans again, hears Tony mutter some more profanities, and then he’s moving, gently at first, rocking his hips into the heat of Peter’s mouth. It’s perfect, he thinks, as he hollows his cheeks around Tony as much as he can, as his mouth is filled over and over by his thick, _perfect_ , cock. 

Tony speeds up his movements, and Peter has to work hard to keep his throat from closing, trying to force himself to relax even as he gets more and more overwhelmed by Tony, the feel, smell, taste of him, the hand gripping his hair tight enough to hurt, the slick sounds of his cock sliding in through his lips, throat clicking and choking around him, and the heat building where he’s rutting against the sheets, aching with the need to release. 

Then Tony shifts, cock sliding deeper than ever before, hitting the back of his throat, and Peter can’t hold it back anymore. He comes with a moan, vibrating around Tony’s dick, pleasure coursing through him for the second time that night. 

“God,” Tony moans, and shit, he sounds wrecked. “You just,” he punctuates with another harsh snap of his hips, “ _came_ , holy,” he breaks off with a moan, panting. “That’s so… ah… so hot, baby, _fuck_.”

He can tell Tony’s close too, and he sucks as tight as he can around him, mind floating in a blissed-out state. All of his focus is now on Tony, and he can feel it, can actually _feel_ the minute before he comes, cock jerking in his mouth before pulsing and flooding him with thick, bitter, salty cum, Tony moaning deep in his throat. 

He swallows down as much as he can without choking, letting the rest bubble up and drip out of his mouth, coating his chin and chest. He’s filthy, a complete mess, and he loves it, loves the way it makes him feel owned, branded by Tony. 

They lay like that for a while, Peter resting his head on Tony’s thigh, breathing slowly evening out, arousal dimming into something soft, intimate. Eventually, Peter lifts his head, looks up to find Tony staring straight back at him.

“Hey,” he says, gentle, like he’s scared Peter will regret what just happened, scared he’ll not want him anymore. 

In response, Peter smiles. He probably looks a little dopey, certainly feels it, but then Tony’s grinning back too, and nothing else matters. 

It’s easy, after that. Tony gets up, fetching a cloth and cleaning them with it. Peter shifts around the bedding until he’s got it sorted again, cocooned under the blankets, leaving the left side open for Tony to slide in beside him, letting Peter wrap his arms around him from behind, holding Tony close to his chest. 

They don’t talk about it, not yet. 

That will come later, tomorrow morning, over coffee and French toast, sleep warm and happy, wrapped in their own little bubble. Tony will worry over the age difference, over taking advantage, and Peter will remind him how much he wanted it. How much he wants him, forever. 

But for now, they nestle close to one another, calm, safe, as they drift into sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments will get you more of the above ;) i'm @saltystarker on tumblr, come say hi


End file.
